


Born Under A Bad Sign Tag

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:52:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, things break and you can't fix them...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coda

“You know, if you’re going to make a habit out of this kind of thing, I’m gonna have to invest in some Kevlar.” Dean winced as he stripped off his shirt, peeling it away from his shoulder.

“Is it bad? Can I—” Sam started to ease the bathroom door open and Dean kicked it shut on him. Sam waited for all of one second before trying again. “Just let me look, Dean, ple—”

This time, Dean snapped the lock when he pushed the door shut. He heard Sam try the knob and felt a mean stab of satisfaction slice through him. Then jumped as Sam pounded his hand against the door. “Don’t do this, Dean. Don’t shut me out.”

“Take a walk, Sam.”

“I can help, I—”

“Oh, I think you’ve already helped enough for one day.” Dean heard the bitterness in his voice and couldn’t control it. This was the _second_ time the little fucker had gotten himself possessed and shot him, for crying out loud. He was _trying_ to take it easy on his brother because he knew it wasn’t really Sam’s fault, but it was so fucking _hard_. And he really couldn’t deal with that hangdog expression and woeful, puppy eyes anymore. Not tonight.

Dean waited for Sam to answer him, expected his brother to plead a little more before he finally gave in, but there was only silence from the other side of the door. He edged a little closer to it, shirt held loosely in one hand, and heard the front door slam. Hunh. Kid had actually taken the hint for once. Things were looking up.

He turned back to the mirror and grimaced at his reflection. His shoulder was caked with blood: the bandage Jo had slapped down over the bullet wound soaked black and twisted askew. Which was what tended to happen when some asshole dug their thumb around in there like they were rooting for gold. Sam had fucked the muscle up: Dean could tell from the heavy weakness that was practically paralyzing his entire arm.

Or maybe Dean had done that himself when he insisted on driving here. Fucking moron. He’d known when he slipped behind the wheel that he had no business driving with his arm like this, but he’d done it anyway. He’d done it because if he’d been stuck sitting in the passenger’s seat with nothing to do but think about the incredibly screwed up week he’d just had, he would’ve actually _said_ the words that had been swimming around his mind ever since Jo fished him out of the water.

Dean grunted and tossed his shirt in the trashcan. That bloodstain wasn’t coming out, and it was a little too large to be glibly explained away. Waste of a perfectly good shirt, really, but they couldn’t afford to draw attention to themselves.

He did his best to clean out the wound, despite the pain and the fact that he didn’t really want to look at it. Even without a thorough inspection, however, it was obvious that he’d be lucky if it healed up right. The bullet sure as hell hadn’t done him a world of good, but round two—with Sam’s hand clamping down as hard as the demon could manage—had torn the wound into a ragged hole almost an inch wide.

He should’ve had Bobby fix him up, but he’d been in too much pain to even _think_ about messing around with his shoulder just yet, and he’d waved off the offer with a quick grin and a promise that Sam would see to it as soon as they stopped for the night. Hah. As though Dean was letting his brother anywhere _near_ his shoulder again.

 _It wasn’t him_ , he reminded himself. _You fucking_ know _it wasn’t him, so what’s the problem?_

“The problem’s that it _looked_ like him, is what,” he answered aloud, softly. “The problem’s…” He cut that one off before he could say it. Refused to even let the thought slip through his head again. This whole fucking situation was bad enough already; he didn’t need to add to it.

Still, if he wasn’t going to let Sam help, he should really drive himself over to a hospital and get stitched up. From what he could see, the docs would probably have to do both an internal and an external set: the muscle was shredded enough that it wouldn’t knit together properly otherwise.

Dean tore his eyes away from his shoulder, turning his back on the mirror. He’d better go now; the longer he waited, the less they’d be able to do for him. If Sam had taken the Impala with him when he left—better _not have run off with my car again_ —he’d just have to call a cab.

Dean sighed and fished his shirt out of the trashcan: no sense ruining another one. After a few minutes of trying to fumble his arm back into the sleeve, he gave up and draped it loosely over his shoulders instead. He eyed himself in the mirror. Yeah, looked like shit, which was pretty much par for the course these days. Maybe he could get Sam to take a few weeks off, just until he stopped looking so much like something that had been dead for a couple of months.

Unlocking the door, Dean stepped out into the room and shifted his good hand up to hold the shirt closed. It was a measure of how much pain he was in and how tired he really was that it took him almost a full minute to realize that Sam was sitting in a chair by the window, staring at him.

Dean resisted the urge to dive back into the bathroom, planting his feet instead. “Thought you went out.”

“I know.”

Tricky little bitch. Sam had slammed the door to their room deliberately, trying to draw Dean out into the open. Which was where he was right now, damnit. _Just keep going and don’t…don’t say anything you’re gonna regret, okay, Winchester?_

Good advice. Dean turned his back on his brother while he scooped his keys up from the table and shoved them in his pocket. “I’m going out for a while. Try and get some sleep.”

“Going out?” Sam was up in an instant, moving to stand between Dean and the door. “Where the hell are you planning on going, Dean?”

“A bar. Disneyworld. Acapulco.” He gave a harsh laugh. “What the fuck’s it to you, Sammy?”

Warning bells were going off in Dean’s head, ordering him to run _now_ before he said anything else, but the anger that had been simmering ever since Sam had pulled the trigger was coursing through him, fixing him to the spot.

Sam’s eyes dropped a little. “I can…you don’t need to go, Dean. I’ll get another room, okay?”

Oh, Christ on a motherfucking cross. “You’ll stay here where I can keep an eye on you. Now get the fuck out of my way.”

Sam raised his head, glancing at Dean’s shoulder and away again. “It’s your shoulder, isn’t it?”

“Shoulder’s fine, Sam. Just peachy. Now _move_.”

But Sam only shifted his weight a little. “Please. Don’t shut me out, man. Don’t…” He swallowed, eyes tearing, and it only fed the fire. Because what right did Sam have to feel sorry for himself, after what he’d done, after…No. _Really_ not going there.

Dean forced himself to take a shuddering breath, counted to ten and back down again. “Not now, Sam. I can’t…I can’t really deal with you right now, okay?” And suddenly he was pleading, begging like some weak kid. _Don’t make me say it, Sammy. If I don’t say it, it isn’t true. Please, just…for once in your life, just let this go._

“I know, and I’m…” Sam trailed off, swallowing.

 _Sorry. You’re sorry. Say it, you asshole._ But Sam didn’t, the word was stuck in his throat, and that was just. Fucking. _It._

“You’re what, Sammy? Hunh? You’re _what_?”

Sam’s eyes widened and he shuffled back a few steps as Dean advanced on him. “Dean, I—”

“You what? Go ahead, Sammy. Say it.”

“What’s wrong with you, man, I—”

“What’s _wrong_ with me?” Dean snorted laughter and let the shirt drop from his shoulders, let Sam get a look at his handiwork. “You turned my shoulder into a fucking piece of hamburger, Sam.”

“Dean, I couldn’t…I tried, but I couldn’t stop it. I wasn’t…wasn’t strong enough.”

“No, you weren’t. And why is that, Sam? Hunh?”

Sam’s throat was working; his eyes locked on Dean’s shoulder, which was sluggishly leaking more blood now that Dean had washed the wound out again.

For a second, Dean thought he’d be able to drop it, that he could just push past Sam and get out of this room before he let this go any further. He could _see_ the precipice now—hell, he was leaning over the fucking edge—but he didn’t have to take that last step. If he left, if he left _right now_ , they could drop it, pretend it had never happened. But his thoughts were fogged with a red, sullen glare, and it was already too late. It had been too late ever since the realization first slammed into him with the speed of a bullet.

“You want to tell me how come you shot me— _twice_ , now? You wanna tell me why you would’ve put a bullet in my brain back in Rockford?”

“Ellicott…”

“Fuck Ellicott. And fuck you, too, Sam. _Dad_ stopped.”

And there it was, laid out simple and flat and fucking _naked_ between them. Dad had bled him from the inside out, sure, but Dad had also stopped. Dad had cared about him enough to stop, even when that son of a bitch was inside him: a demon stronger than Meg’s, stronger than anything else they’d faced, and Dad had fought it down. Had _stopped_.

Sam looked stunned and hurt, as though Dean had just sucker punched him. Which, in a way, Dean guessed that he had. Sam probably hadn’t thought that he was smart enough to put two and two together and come up with four. Or he’d expected Dean to just shut up and take it the way he took everything else. But Dean only took everything else because none of it mattered. Because none of that shit was worth a damn thing.

 _They don’t need you, not like you need them._

Those words echoing back around, words that he’d almost managed to convince himself were a lie. Words he _knew_ were a lie, in Dad’s case, because the proof was in the purchase, wasn’t it? And Dad had paid the highest price he could for Dean: too fucking high in Dean’s opinion. But Sam—Sam, who Dean had cut himself up over, had bled for, had _killed_ for—couldn’t be bothered. It hadn’t been important enough for him to stop himself.

 _Dean_ hadn’t been important enough.

Dean waited for a few minutes while Sam worked through it. He waited for his brother to argue. To come up with some kind of explanation, no matter how weak. But Sam just stared at him, face slipping from shock into a slack, empty expression, and finally Dean couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’ll be back whenever,” he said. The words came out soft, almost gentle: his anger was gone suddenly, replaced by a dull throb in his chest that hurt more than his shoulder ever had.

Sam didn’t move as Dean walked out. Didn’t call him back as Dean shut the door behind himself.

He got as far as the Impala before his legs stopped working, and then he leaned his back against the freezing metal. Let the night air wash over his bare chest, raising goose bumps, numbing him. Stared up at the stars, cold and remote.

 _I would’ve stopped, Sammy._

And the most fucked up, horrible part of the entire mess was that even now, knowing what he did, Dean would still stop. He’d always stop. He’d stop until Sam stopped _him_ , and then everything would finally be quiet. And God and Dad please forgive him, but that day couldn’t come soon enough.


	2. Tag to Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being angry with his little brother is the least of Dean's problems...

The lights were off when Dean pulled up in front of the room, so he figured that Sam had turned in for the night. It wasn’t until he barked his shin on the edge of Sam’s bed while trying to navigate in the dark that he realized it was empty. Son of a bitch was gone. Again. This was really getting to be a bad habit.

Dean had been more than a little ticked off at the emergency room, fielding questions about his shoulder: _‘I was cleaning my gun and accidentally shot myself, whoops!’_ No one believed him: wrong entry angle and, of course, all that extra muscle damage. The doctor had been cold and mistrustful— _drug dealer, third one tonight, wish they’d just kill each other and get it over with_ —and the nurses had practically smothered him with their pity— _he’s protecting someone, friend of his, maybe his wife. Maybe his husband._ Muted laughter, followed by, _God, I hope not._ It had been an effort to sit there and take it, to pretend he hadn’t overheard them, and he still wasn’t sure how he’d managed.

He left the bathroom window shattered behind him when he snuck out, about three steps in front of the police the doctor had called. Kicking the glass had been far more satisfying than it should have been, and he’d recognized then that he was in no mood to face Sam. He’d been considering finding another motel, or maybe just sacking out in the Impala, when then the drugs had kicked in and sapped his anger. Dean let them: welcomed the slide into subdued numbness that made it safe to go back.

Now, staring at Sam’s empty bed, all that rage flared up again. Pressure pulsed behind his eyes: his anger hot and red, like a sore. When he found Sam, he was going to shove a tracking device down his brother’s throat. Or, better yet, put a bullet in his leg. See how far he could run then.

The overhead light clicked on and Dean turned, too slow from the drugs and reaching for a gun he wasn’t packing. _Shit, shit, you fucking idiot,_ he thought, and then he saw Sam standing next to the light switch. Relief blew through him in a cold wind, damping his anger.

Until he realized that Sam had set him up again. Then he tensed, turning away to hide the blackness in his face. His left shoulder throbbed, despite the drugs, and he consciously relaxed his muscles as he started toward the bathroom. He was going to piss, brush his teeth, and then slide into bed. Sack out for a while.

“We need to talk,” Sam announced, and _of course_ he wasn’t going to let Dean off that easily. He hadn’t been sitting in the dark, waiting for Dean to come back—ambushed _me, the little fuck_ —so they could play Parcheesi.

“I’m not really in the mood right now, Sam.” Dean flipped the bathroom light on and then started to swing the door shut. Sam was there before he could, slamming it back open and glowering down at him.

“Tough shit.” Sam’s voice was edged with some emotion Dean was too tired to recognize.

“Go to bed, Sammy.”

“Or what?” Sam edged forward a little, drawing himself up, and if he was angling for a fight, then he was about three inches away from getting one, busted shoulder or not.

Dean reached for the door with his good hand, wanting to stop this before it went any further, and Sam crowded closer. He brushed Dean’s hand away from the door and maneuvered his way into the bathroom. Dean found himself squished up against the sink.

His muscles were screaming at him to punch the little fuck, but he fought the impulse down, curled his right hand around the sink’s cool lip. “Dude, the fuck?” he grumbled, glancing at the room beyond his brother. He wondered if he could get past Sam; it was starting to feel cramped in here.

Sam towered over him, eyes dark— _not as dark as they were when shut the fuck up_ —and expression unreadable. “How’s your shoulder?”

And Dean wanted to kick him, punch him, head butt him— _no don’t hurt Sammy, don’t_ —anything just to get him the fuck away. Dean was sweating, and his hand slipped off the porcelain, but God, he felt so _cold_. “Shot to shit,” he ground out, tongue like sandpaper in his mouth. “Now get out so I can finish up and go to bed.”

But Sam stepped closer instead, and Dean _still_ couldn’t figure out what was going on in his brother’s brain, what he wanted, and was it getting difficult to breathe in here or was that just him? He had to tilt his head back a little to maintain eye contact and it occurred to him, suddenly, how vulnerable he was: drugged to the gills and with his left arm in a sling across his chest. Unarmed.

“You’re right, Dean,” Sam said. “Dad did stop.” Then he shifted—not moving any closer, just that normal little shuffle Sam made whenever his brain was going a mile a minute and he couldn’t keep up—but it was the last straw.

Dean’s good arm came up and he shoved, not caring if Sam toppled over and snapped his neck so long as he wasn’t so fucking _close_. But Sam didn’t fall: he only staggered back against the edge of the shower. Dean seized the chance to charge out of the bathroom and into the open.

His breathing eased as soon as he had put some space between himself and Sam, and he understood, suddenly and horribly, that he hadn’t been angry in the bathroom: he’d been freaked the fuck out. He’d been holding onto the sink for dear life and waiting for Sam to slam him against the wall and finish beating the crap out of him. Shit. He could hear Sam following him, coming toward him, and his heart rate ratcheted up.

“We’re not finished here, Dean.” Sam sounded angry, he sounded pissed, and Dean was moving for the door without thinking about it. A huge hand wrapped around his right arm before he’d gone more than a couple of steps and yanked him to a stop. Then he was being spun around and _Christ_ , had Sam always been this huge?

Dean tried to pull his arm away and couldn’t: Sam’s fingers were digging into his muscle, Sam was crowding up his personal space. Dean almost swallowed his own tongue.

“You brought it up, man,” Sam was saying. “You can’t just lay something like that out there and expect me to forget about it. We have to talk about this.”

 _Talk. He just wants to talk, Winchester, so calm the fuck down._

“You had your chance, Sam. Didn’t seem to have a hell of a lot to say then.” Dean made his voice hard, struggling to turn the fear into anger, or at least to make it _sound_ like anger. Because that was the first rule of the jungle: never let them see how afraid you are, it’ll only encourage them.

“No, I didn’t. But, Dean, that’s…” Sam frowned, the first recognizable expression Dean had seen on his brother’s face, and then continued, “Just because I didn’t say anything doesn’t mean that you were right.”

Sam was keeping his voice modulated, sounded a little wounded if anything, and Dean found himself relaxing slightly. “Yeah, sure. Fine. I was way out of line. I was wrong, Sam. That what you want me to say?”

“I want you to _believe_ it, damnit!” Sam shouted, and it was like being dumped in a vat of ice water. Adrenaline pumped through Dean, his skin electrified. This time when he tried, he managed to pull free and stumble away.

Sam looked confused for a second, and then glanced from Dean down to his own hand, and then up again to Dean’s shoulder. Realization broke across his face and he slumped a little, eyes widening like a kicked puppy’s. Dean stood stock still, trying to sort through the conflicting needs to get as far as possible away from Sam and to wipe that lost, hurt look off his brother’s face.

“Dean, I…” Sam started forward and then drew up short when Dean flinched. “I wouldn’t hurt you. I would _never_ —”

Dean couldn’t help it, his eyes slipped down to his shoulder, and Sam’s face shattered. He turned away, one hand coming up to rub at his eyes, and his sleeve slid down. Dean could see the burn on his brother’s arm: it looked sore and puffy, just about spitting distance from infected, and why the hell hadn’t he said something about it earlier?

Dean exhaled his fear in a long, shuddering breath. “Jesus, Sammy.”

Sam glanced at him uncertainly, but Dean was already moving for the first aid kit. He could feel his brother watching and ignored him. He wasn’t sure what would trigger another panic attack, and he wanted to get Sam taken care of before he lost it again. He _should_ have taken care of Sam before.

Dean laid the kit out on the bed before allowing himself to look at his brother. Sam was still standing there in the middle of the room, his face wary and a little confused. He was unresisting when Dean dragged him over and pushed him down on the bed next to the kit. But when Dean reached for his arm, understanding dawned in Sam’s eyes and he jerked out of reach. Pushed to his feet and stalked to the other side of the room.

“Damnit, Dean! You can’t just _do_ that. You can’t treat me like some kind of monster one minute and then turn around and…” His voice was choked, and he sounded a few seconds away from crying.

Dean stared down at the first aid kit, running his hands nervously over its contents. Searched for something to say and then, finally, settled on the truth. Mainly because he didn’t think he could fuck things up any worse at this point. “I don’t know what to do.”

Sam laughed a little hysterically, looking anywhere but at Dean. “I think that’s painfully obvious.” Then he breathed out in a short, hard exhale. “Look, man, this isn’t working. I’ll just… I’ll get another room, give you some space.”

Sam moved toward the door, not even stopping to collect his things, and Dean staggered to his feet. He dove between his brother and the exit, ignoring the jagged pain that the movement sent through his shoulder. Sam hesitated, gaze focused on the floor, and then detoured to go around him.

There was a sour, desperate taste in Dean’s mouth as he jumped sideways and shoved his brother back, away from the door. Sam let him, holding his arms limp at his sides and blinking furiously. Dean cringed inwardly. _That’s just great, Winchester, you made your little brother cry._

He tried to speak and couldn’t force the words out through the lump of emotion filling his throat. God, he was so pissed. He was so fucking scared and hurt and confused. He wanted Sam out of here, wanted to beat him until he was bloody and raw, wanted everything to just _stop_ damnit, and he thought that he might just give the fuck up and eat a bullet if his brother actually walked out that door.

“What do you want from me, Dean?” Sam pleaded. “Whatever it is, man, just…” His voice cracked as though he was thirteen instead of twenty-three. “…just tell me, okay? I can’t help if I don’t know what you need.”

 _I need you to stay. I need you not to have shot me. I need Dad here to tell me what the fuck to do, how to save you. I need you to give a damn, you fucking prick._

But what came out, half-strangled, was, “Maybe you should go,” and was he _trying_ to drive a knife through his own heart or what?

“Is that what you want?” Sam asked quietly.

Dean couldn’t force the lie past his teeth, so he kept his mouth shut. Let Sam decide what to do, what he wanted. Dean was too messed up, too tired, to figure this out for them. _Pick right, okay, Sam? Fix this._

But what Sam said was, “Okay, I’ll go.”

Dean’s heart stopped with a painful clench. He could feel his face falling, breaking, and was embarrassingly grateful that Sam was still studying the floor. Dean concentrated and somehow managed to suck in another breath. His heart lurched into motion again, sounding sluggish in his ears: reluctant and run down. He schooled his face to emptiness and walked around Sam toward the bathroom. He wasn’t going to watch his brother leave. Not again.

“Dean, please…”

Dean paused, leaning in the bathroom doorway and carefully not thinking about anything.

“Before I go, I need to—you need to listen to me. Just let me say one thing and then I won’t bother you anymore.”

No. Just go. Because there was still a chance that Dean could scrape enough of himself back together to keep going. If Sam could just get it over with and leave. If Sam could just stop ripping him into pieces. If Sam could just fucking shut up for one minute. Yeah, right.

“I need you to know that… that I would have stopped, okay?”

And just like that, bitter rage was pulsing through Dean, drowning out the confusion and the pain. He latched onto it gratefully, spinning around and advancing on his brother. “Bullshit!” he spat. “That’s bullshit, Sam. You had your chance: you fucking _shot_ me and then you—”

“Dean, I _didn’t know_!” Sam stared at him, imploring. “I didn’t see. It wouldn’t _let_ me see.”

Dean’s anger slipped. God, if that were only true. But… “Dad—”

“Dad _saw_ , Dean!” Now Sam sounded angry too, and it was too much to process, and it was too dangerous to hope, so Dean angled himself away. He bolted towards the front door because he needed some space, he needed some time to think this through, but Sam was there, blocking him, and Dean was getting really sick of this song and dance.

“No,” Sam growled, pushing him back. “You’re not going anywhere until I get through to you, you stupid asshole.”

Dean was trapped. He had his foot caught in a snare and now he knew why rabbits chewed their own paws off to get free. Out, he had to get out, and that hammering fear was rising again because Sam had _pushed_ him and it wasn’t all that far from pushing to punching.

“You want to know why I didn’t say anything before? When you dumped this shit on me and ran?” Sam laughed, bitter. “It’s cause I agreed with you. Because I should have stopped, whether I knew what was going on or not. I _should_ have been fucking strong enough. Dad was.”

The self-disgust in Sam’s voice cut through Dean’s rising fear, and he winced. “Sammy—” he started, but Sam shook his head sharply. Dean got the message and shut up, averting his eyes because he couldn’t look at his brother like this. He was too raw, too open.

“But you know, I’ve been thinking, and I’m _not_ Dad, Dean. I’m…I’m weak, okay? I’m weak and there’s this…this connection between the demon and me. Hell, maybe it makes me more susceptible to possession, maybe…makes it harder to fight it off, even if it gave me the chance.”

“But it didn’t.” Sam was speaking softly but emphatically, and when he stepped forward, Dean glanced at him. “I didn’t know until after, when it was gone.”

Dean could tell that Sam was waiting for him to say something now, but he didn’t know what the hell his brother wanted to hear. Didn’t even know what he was supposed to think. God, if it was possible…he’d never considered…if Sam hadn’t known, if he _was_ more susceptible…hell, if the binding link had weakened him, if it had made the demon’s hold on him stronger…

In the face of Dean’s silence, Sam turned away abruptly. “I can’t give you an answer. I don’t know why I didn’t—couldn’t—stop. But I sure as hell know that it wasn’t because I didn’t want to. It wasn’t because I didn’t care, okay?”

 _Okay?_ Jesus Christ, what the hell did Sam expect him to say to _that_? Dean couldn’t seem to wrap his head around it. Sam had just ripped all of his assumptions and suspicions away, and _fuck_ , he just needed a few minutes to figure this out.

But Sam was at the door: Sam’s hand was on the knob. “I’ll get the room next door. If you…if you need anything, any help with your arm or something, call me.”

The door was open and Sam was stepping out before Dean found his voice and choked, “Okay.”  
Sam glanced back. “Okay you’ll call?” he asked uncertainly.

“Just…just _okay_.”

And Sam stared at him for so long that Dean thought that he’d fucked it up, that he’d left it too late, that he’d pushed Sam too far away. That Sam hadn’t heard what he was trying to say: hadn’t heard “I’m sorry” and “I trust you” and “stay”.

But then Sam was smiling, slow and a little shy, and Dean almost buckled in relief. “Okay.”


	3. Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are trying to put Meg in their rearview mirror, but that's easier said than done ... **Prompt:** confusion, regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For tigriswolf

It wasn’t until Dean collapsed on his way to the car that Sam realized something was wrong. Or, well, more wrong than it should have been. His breath punched out as Dean went down, hitting the ground heavily on his left side.

“Dean!” he shouted, sprinting forward and dropping to his knees. Careful of his brother’s shoulder, he pulled Dean up and half into his lap. Dean was unconscious, eyes shut and jaw slack, but from the way he’d gone down Sam thought that was probably a good thing.

There were people coming out from the diner where they’d stopped for lunch, some gawking and some shouting for someone to call 911, but Sam tuned them out. Now that he was actually letting himself take a good look at his brother _(for the first time in days, yeah, okay, but you try meeting someone’s eyes when they flinch every time you move)_ it was obvious that Dean was sick. His skin was too pale: lips ashen and deep, purple shadows beneath his eyes. He was sweating: beads of it caught in his hair and rolling down from his temples. Sam knew that if he pulled his brother’s jacket and shirt off and looked beneath the bandage covering the bullet hole, he’d find pus and swollen, red skin.

“Damn it, Dean,” he muttered, and a jolt of anger broke through his concern. Things were a little fucked between them right now, but Dean should have told him that his shoulder wasn’t healing right. Concealing shit like this was dangerous—God, what if they’d been in the middle of a hunt instead of downtown Rockwell?

Dean drew in a sharp, sudden breath and opened his eyes. For a few seconds, he blinked around with glassy confusion and then his gaze settled on Sam and he tried to jerk away. His low, frightened whimper immediately slid into a loud shout at the movement and his right hand went to cradle his injured shoulder protectively.

Sam’s stomach turned, overbalanced by a surge of guilty concern, and he relaxed his hold. “Dean,” he said quickly, pitching his voice in a gentle, soothing register. “Dean, it’s me, man.”

Dean wheezed in a couple of shallow breaths and then panted, “Know that … get off … ‘m fine.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “You’re an asshole is what you are. Now hold still. I think someone called for an ambulance. The paramedics can take care of—”

But Dean was shaking his head and struggling to push up into a sitting position. “No hospital,” he insisted, voice weak but nonetheless determined.

Sam hesitated, trying to balance Dean’s health with his mental state, and then held him down with a silent apology. Dean’s face went even whiter at the restraint and his eyes widened. Panic darkened them to a dark green that was almost black, and Sam was almost certain that his brother had been caught up by a flashback.

You couldn’t regret what you didn’t remember doing, but right now Sam was managing that particular trick just fine.

Concentrating past the tight ache in his chest, Sam bent almost in half so that he could murmur in Dean’s ear. “Dean. It’s Sam. Meg’s gone, okay? She’s _gone_.”

Dean shuddered and blinked and seemed to come back a little. His eyes slid around—he looked at the ring of onlookers without actually taking them in—and then focused on Sam’s face. Still disoriented by whatever memory had just grabbed him, and probably further off-balance from the fever, he made a choked, frightened noise and shook his head.

Wishing bitterly that he could trade his face in for a new one, Sam said, “I’m not going to hurt you, Dean.”

“Let go,” Dean gasped. His face went pinched as he concentrated and added, “Sammy, we gotta. We gotta go. Cops.”

Of course. They were wanted men—Dean especially had a target hung around his neck—and as soon as the EMTs got a good look at Dean’s shoulder they’d recognize the gunshot wound for what it was and call the police. Standard operating procedure.

Anger, hot and futile, clenched Sam’s jaw. They were fucked if they waited, but Dean obviously needed more medical attention than Sam could offer, and so they were fucked if they left. And Sam was so goddamned sick of getting screwed.

“Fuck ‘em,” he ground out after a moment. “We’re waiting for the ambulance.”

He’d have to slip away once he handed Dean over, of course: had to stay out of jail himself if he was going to get Dean back once he was healed up. Maybe the time apart would do them both some good, though. Maybe it would give them a chance to get their heads on straight.

But Dean went haywire at Sam’s decision, fighting to free himself and panting “no no no” over and over until the pain got into his throat and shut him up. Then he bit down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood and made a muffled noise that Sam couldn’t classify as anything but a whimper. He kept struggling, of course: too damned stubborn to listen to the messages his body was broadcasting loud and clear.

“Stop, damn it! You’re gonna hurt yourself,” Sam yelled, so helpless and angry and guilty that he was choking on it.

“Please,” Dean begged. His right hand fisted in Sam’s shirt. “Please, Sam.”

Looking down into his brother’s terrified, pain-fogged eyes, Sam wasn’t sure Dean even knew what he was pleading for. Wasn’t sure Dean even knew where he was. But he realized, with a sinking feeling, that he couldn’t abandon Dean when he was like this. He couldn’t leave his brother with strangers when he was so vulnerable and confused.

“Okay,” he said, caving. “Okay, man, we’ll go. But you need to let me help you to the car, and then we're getting you to a doctor.”

“Please,” Dean repeated. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes absurdly long and dark against his skin.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Sam grunted, and then shifted his grip and carefully started bringing his brother up to his feet.

“Hey!” someone called from behind him. Their waitress, maybe. “You shouldn’t move him.”

Sam ignored the woman, walking Dean over to the car and doing his best not to jostle his brother too much in the process. Dean kept trying to pull away from him and Sam did his best not to let that shred his chest into even smaller tatters. Dean was out of it, and in pain, and none of this meant that he didn’t trust Sam. None of it meant that they couldn’t work through this back to level ground.

None of it meant that Meg had won.

But when they reached the Impala and Sam murmured, “I’ve got you,” the words came out choked. Blinking eyes that were suddenly watering, he leaned Dean against the car and felt around in his brother’s pockets until he found the keys. His hands were shaking badly enough that it took him several tries to get the door open. No siren warble yet, but he had no doubts that it was coming.

“Okay, time to go,” he said, and reached for his brother again.

Dean shrunk back, almost fell, and caught himself on the car. He hissed sharply, and then swore, and Sam caught him as his knees buckled a second time. God, Dean was burning up. How was he still conscious?

How could Sam have missed this?

When Dean raised his eyes, his gaze was clearer. He seemed present in a way he hadn’t before. “Sammy?”

“Yeah, I’m right here. We have to get you in the car, okay?”

Dean’s head lolled down so that he could squint at Sam’s hands on his body, then lifted again so he could look first at the open door and then up into Sam’s face.

“Think my shoulder’s infected,” he rasped.

Sam’s throat closed up on him and he had to clear it before he could say, “Thanks for the newsflash, asshole.”

Dean managed a wan smile. “Thought I was coming down with something,” he offered.

Sam knew that was ten different kinds of bullshit, but he didn’t call Dean on it. There wasn’t time to argue and Dean wasn’t coherent enough to have any kind of meaningful discussion anyway.

“Gonna help you in now, okay?” he warned, shifting his hold on his brother’s waist and chest.

Dean’s breath sped, but he didn’t protest: just clenched his jaw and nodded. He fainted again when they accidentally banged his shoulder against the door, and Sam almost dropped him when _awkward_ weight became unexpected _dead_ weight. He maneuvered Dean into the backseat as quickly as possible, trying not to jar him any more than he absolutely had to in the process, and then slammed the door shut and sprinted around to the driver’s side. He could hear sirens in the distance now, still tinny but getting closer, which meant they were almost out of time.

As he pulled out onto the street in a protesting squeal of rubber, Sam fumbled for his phone and then hit two on speed dial. It was far too soon to be calling after everything that Bobby had done for them, and he didn’t like dumping his fucked up issues with his brother in the man’s lap, but he didn’t have a choice. There wasn’t anyone else he trusted enough when it came to Dean’s health.

“Bobby?” he said as soon as the man answered. “It’s Sam. Dean’s—his shoulder’s infected, and I think it’s pretty bad. He needs a doctor.”

Without making Sam go through any more bullshit, Bobby cut to the chase and asked, “Where’re you boys at?”

“Rockwell,” he answered.

“Rockwell, South Dakota?” Bobby said, sounding surprised.

“Dean wasn’t—he wasn’t really in the shape to drive very far.”

Sam didn’t add that he’d offered to take the wheel and been shot down. Didn’t add that he suspected Rockwell’s proximity to the salvage yard was actually one of the reasons why Dean had stopped here. He didn’t add any of that because Bobby knew Dean almost as well as Sam, and was doubtlessly already aware of the subtleties of the situation.

Sure enough, Bobby’s tone was knowing when he sighed, “Yeah. Bring him back here. I’ll make a call: get Doc Ambrose over here.”

Gratitude welled up, leaving a painful lump in Sam’s throat. “You sure?” he choked out, taking a left turn toward the highway.

“Shouldn’t’ve let you two knuckleheads out by yourselves in the first place,” Bobby grumbled.

Sam wanted to bristle at that and couldn’t because Bobby was right. Much as they both hated owing anyone, they needed help in this. That much was painfully obvious.

Sam wasn't aware that he meant to say anything until he was speaking, and then it all spilled out in a panicked rush.

“He won’t talk to me. He keeps—I move too fast and he fucking _cowers_ , and I’m—I’m—like I’m gonna hurt him again, and he can’t even look at me half the time, and I can’t look at him either, I can’t—I don’t even fucking remember, but it’s all I dream about, Bobby, I dream about hurting him, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix it.”

Bobby was quiet for a moment and then he said, “You just get him here, son. We’ll sort everything out when Dean’s on his feet again.”

As he pulled onto the highway, Sam swallowed thickly. “Okay,” he managed.

“See you in thirty,” Bobby said.

“See you in twenty,” Sam countered with a half-strangled laugh, and then hung up his phone and tossed it into the passenger seat and gunned the engine. In the back seat, Dean shifted and let out a soft moan.

Turned out that Sam could make the drive in fifteen.


End file.
